


Calling Names

by spuffyduds



Category: Firefly
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-04
Updated: 2010-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-05 18:23:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spuffyduds/pseuds/spuffyduds





	Calling Names

He's reading the calling of the first Disciples, out loud to himself in his bunk. He tells himself that he's wrapping himself in the Word, that hearing those names bouncing off the metal walls is a comfort to himself that will make him more of a comfort to others. But he has a sneaking suspicion that he really just likes the sound of his own voice. A little vanity, there, that he should surely deal with—-someday when there's more time, when they're not on the run, when there's not conflict within the crew to settle. When pigs fly and Reavers bake your birthday cake.

And River's suddenly there, head hanging upside down in his bunk's ladderway. "Why was Simon calling Peter?" she says.

"He wasn't," Book says, "He was _called_ Peter," and she swings down into the room, crouches on the edge of his bunk. He has a moment of panic and his hand flies to the top of his head—-no, it's all right, his hair is restrained. He has no desire to terrorize her—-she's been approaching sane, lately.

"Peter is a stupid nickname for Simon," she says. "It's got not a single letter in common. Whatsoever."

"True," he says. "It's one mystery among many. Perhaps it was his second name and he liked it better than Simon."

"Simon IS an ugly name," she says, and freezes for a second. She has a way of going still that's like nobody else's—-she's utterly motionless and simply not _there_, even in her eyes. Book fights the urge to check her pulse.

Then she's back. "He told me once that I was called River because when I was a baby I pissed all over everything, all the time. But he made that up." She cocks her head and gifts him with one of her rare, huge smiles. "And he didn't say pissed, he said 'urinated," even though he was seven."

"He would, yes," Book smiles back at her, and she shifts her weight, hunkers back into her crouch. He's noticed that when she's settled in her mind she's more unsettled in her body, as if she has a certain required level of madness and it has to go somewhere. She's gripping the edge of his bunk with her long, slightly grimy toes. If I'd had the naming of _you_, girl, I'd have called you Monkey, he thinks but doesn't say.

Then he hears "River?!?" echoing from somewhere in the ship. "Does _your_ Simon know where you are?" he says.

"No." She looks at him for a minute. "He _is_ my Simon, isn't he? I think he'd like to be someone else's, sometimes. But he can't."

Book takes a deep breath, because you never know when this is going to happen, when you suddenly are going to arrive at the point in a talk when all your soul is needed to help someone, and he shoots up a brief wordless prayer to say the right thing and says, "Maybe he can. Maybe if you let him, if you try not to need him—-quite so much."

She stares at him silently, neutrally, unreadably, and then swings up his ladder and is gone. And he has no idea if that was a bit of hope or a load of guilt for her. That's the worst part of the calling, he thinks, that you never, never know if you're doing it right. Or if you were ever even really called, at all.

He sits for a moment, resigns himself to uncertainty, then thumbs his book back open and recites the names again. "He saw two brothers, Simon called Peter and his brother Andrew. They were casting a net into the lake, for they were fishermen..."

 

\--END--


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